


Lost and Found

by LunaStellaCat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 21:23:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10671042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaStellaCat/pseuds/LunaStellaCat
Summary: Catriona loses her husband and finds her family.





	Lost and Found

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes? Yes.” Catriona wasn’t sure about anything anymore. 

“Quite sure?” 

Captain George Duke paced the sitting room and kept his eyes on the prize. Well, it wasn't so much a prize as a surprise, but Catriona imagined the wheels turning in his head. After one of those pomp and circumstance ceremonies, he wore his Army dress blues. Catriona seemed to confirm his serious doubt when she darted off to the bathroom and lost her lunch.

George rapped his knuckles on the closed door. “Are you all right?” 

“Yes,” said Catriona, closing her eyes and struggling to figure out how they got here in the first place. They’d met in springtime and months passed in a blink of an eye, and most of the time passed in his bed. No, no, she decided, Catriona was definitely not all right. But she lied for him.

She straightened her dress, fixed her brunette hair, went with a smile, and stepped back outside. He followed her. Catriona wondered if she ought to spell it out for him. There was no hiding their little secret any longer; it was out. She had this ring on her finger, a wedding band, and whilst she’d seen this coming down the road, George’s curveball hit her out of nowhere. He’d told her as they queued in line at the register’s office. 

“Earl of Loughinsholin,” she said shakily, pacing in the garden. Catriona was the daughter of a Scottish football player and a witch. Last year, she guessed about nine months ago now, she’d met an Army recruiter outside a pub in Galway. Catriona might spend the rest of her life paying for this mistake. She flashed her hand at George, threatening to hit him if he asked her if she was all right one more time. “You might have started with that!” 

“Yes.” George stood there in his Army dress blues. He’d be leaving in two hours on an assignment. Or perhaps it wasn't even called an assignment, or he’d only be gone a few days. But he’d wanted to cross this off the list because they hadn't gotten around to it for whatever reason. 

“And that makes me?” 

“Lady Loughinsholin and seventh earl,” he said, walking over and draping his arm over her shoulder. This depended, of course, on whether or not he had a son. 

“So when that man called you a lord,” she said slowly, bringing up the man in the Ivy cap they’d spotted right outside the city. George kissed her, telling her not to worry. Catriona frowned at him, not dropping the subject for anything because she might be carrying his heir. She mentioned this as they went back inside. “Who are you?” 

“Captain George Duke,” he answered promptly, grabbing his rucksacks out of the bedroom and heading back into the sitting room. Catriona hit him in the back of the head with a pair of socks. He explained the nobility went into the military because it was what they did. “Officially?” 

“George.” Catriona tapped her foot and lied straight through her teeth. He thought she worked as a secretary in Edinburgh when she really was Chaser for the Pride of Portree; she was a Captain, too. “I’ve told you everything. If I’m carrying your bastard, I think I get a say.” 

“George Matthew Philipe Nathaniel Duke III, sixth Earl of Loughinsholin,” he said, kissing her again. “And it’s not a bastard. He’s my son. It’s very low nobility. I’ve never met anyone in the Royal Family. Not a lord. Yet.” 

“George.” 

“Yes?” George unzipped her dress and kissed her bare shoulder, resting his hand on her belly. “You’re not fretting over the operation again, are you? I’ll see you Wednesday afternoon.” 

“No. You’re a lord?” 

“Cat. Not yet.” 

Catriona muttered that she’d never met his parents. He’d met her father in passing because George liked football, and her father worked as the athletic trainer for Manchester United. She stood there, imagining the wedding ring screaming at her, for it seemed quite weighty on her finger, and debated telling him everything. If he loved her, truly loved her, he wouldn't care, right? He distracted her with sex.

It was nothing more than an effort to stall the civil unrest in Belfast. The Catholics and the Protestants never got along, and a bandage would do nothing. The British Army thought it was something, and since he was apparently heir apparent of somewhere in Northern Ireland, George had volunteered. Actually he’d been voluntold. 

“Don’t go.” Catriona tried to persuade him to stay with his new bride. George laughed, shaking his head and telling her to lower her defenses. George got up and got dressed in his combat uniform. “Two days?” 

“Maybe three,” he said, tacking another day on to cover his bases. He slipped on his slightly scuffed shoes and patted her cheek. He held up three fingers. “And I’ll come back to you, my bonnie bride.” 

 

Operation Demeterius lasted two days. When Catriona woke up on Thursday morning, four days later, she met officers at her door. There were two confirmed casualties on their side. Possibly a third. When they arrived at the facility, Catriona, half-awake, simply followed them and crossed her arms. They stepped into a morgue and stopped outside a large picture window. 

“You were listed as next of kin,” said an officer, “and we do not have the dog tags, but he changed into civilian clothing, we think, so we want a proper identification. A yes or no.’  
“All right,” said Catriona, biting her lower lip. Why had she forgotten her jacket? “What time is it?”  
“Oh six hundred,” he said. Six in the morning. “Are you ready, ma’am?”  
Catriona nodded slowly. The officer tapped on the window. As they lifted the sheet, sudden panic surged through her, for she knew next to nothing about the Muggle military, although George had gone through the trouble of explaining military time because he’d gotten a laugh about the whole thing. She’d been slower than molasses at grasping that concept. 

“Wait. What if he went home before checking in? George lives near Londonderry.” Catriona had imagined this since these officers had showed up at her place with this news. 

“Without his pregnant wife?” asked the officer, another Captain, doubtfully. 

They said nothing for some time. Catriona wanted to poke holes in this possibility, but there were gaping craters in her supposed scenarios. Maybe he decided he truly didn't want to be strapped down to a Scottish girl and fell in love with a proper Irish woman. He was Lord Whatever, after all, and there used to be bad blood among the Irish, Scottish, and English. What if they had miscounted? Or maybe he was missing? Granted a missing officer was bad luck, but it was better than the alternative. 

The officer pulled her back. “This’ll be difficult, so brace yourself.” 

“Right.” Even as she said it, Catriona knew George would never abandon his post. 

The officer signaled again. As they pulled back the white sheet, she stared into a face of hamburger meat. Catriona, who had felt ill throughout her pregnancy, let the wave of nausea come. What had happened to his face? The left side, well, part of it, looked normal, but it was nothing to go by. George had blonde hair, beautiful thick, blonde curls. The man wore a shirt and trousers. 

“That’s not George,” she said, turning her back on the maimed man. She paced back and forth, asking why they had not thought to call George Duke’s parents. She didn’t know what to do. The officer said the man had been shot point blank in the face as he tried negotiate. She was his next of kin. 

“How do you know it’s not him?” The officer leaned on the opposite wall. 

“Because it’s not George. It’s not.” 

She sighed when the officer opened the door and invited her to have a closer look. Catriona slipped on gloves and held the man's lifeless right hand, apologizing, for this was an awful way to go. There was a plain wedding band on his left hand, but that meant nothing. A hundred other men, countless other men, wore these wedding bands. There was a mark of two red lines on his wrist. This was the first hint. 

“George…he has a birthmark of an arrowhead on his thigh.” She’d kissed it the other day. The officer nodded, lifting the white sheet respectfully, shielding the body. Slowly, cautiously, Catriona scrutinized the mark. She touched a trembling hand to her lips and nodded, unable to get the words out. 

“George.” 

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said the officer softly. He asked if she needed a moment. 

“He was supposed to come home yesterday,” she said, blinking furiously. Without asking if she could touch him, Catriona stroked George’s dirty, blood-stained hair and pressed her lips to his. The officer, who had probably done this before, stepped back and froze like a statue. She knew he wasn't in there because he’d slipped away, but she said, “You go, Go to rest. I’ll be … we’ll be fine.” 

“Ma’am.” The officer wasn't rushing her, yet he had a schedule. He didn’t sound rehearsed, but he had a duty. “Should I contact anyone?” 

“His parents. I don't know their names. Loughinsholin. Lord Loughinsholin. The father’s called George … because he’s the third or fourth or something.” Catriona dropped his hand and tucked the sheet around George, saying he hated the cold and the rain. He lived in the wrong part of the world. “George Duke. May I step out?” 

“Yes,” he said, getting the door for her. 

Catriona wondered why his father wasn't here. When she stepped into the other room, she lost her breakfast in nearby bin, although at this point, she couldn't recall whatever she'd eaten anyway. Going against his food in the bedroom rule, George had stashed two sleeves of Saltines in her bedroom table drawer. The other officer went over to help her, but she held up a hand. He handed over George’s personal effects, including his wedding band and a blue lighter. 

“Please don’t touch me.” 

If he hugged her, she’d be hugging the man who’d wanted her husband’s death confirmed. The moment he wrapped his arms around her or did anything slightly human, she’d sob onto his shoulder. And she wouldn’t stop. Catriona stepped outside, noticed the morning workday traffic had started, made sure the coast was clear before she Apparated. 

 

She appeared on a side street in Portree. It was seven fifteen, and she was late for practice. Because she couldn't think of George and she couldn't imagine facing George’s parents, she went about her regular day. Of course, with the baby on the way, she hadn't participated in practice or Quidditch matches since the coach, Mr. Ferguson, had benched her a month ago. 

Peter McCormack, the burly Keeper, dived towards the earth on his Windswept and rushed over to her. He was six and a half feet tall and had grey eyes and auburn hair, a Scot. He drank like an Irishman when the fancy struck him; except for one of the Beaters, Jasper St. Claire, nobody succeeded in drinking this man under the table. 

“She’s a bride,” roared Peter, grinning as he spotted the ring glittering on her hand. Catriona walked faster, determined to get this over with as quickly and as painlessly as possible. 

“Hello, Peter.” 

Catriona climbed the stands and tapped Mr. Ferguson on the shoulder. Mr. Ferguson was a man who would die with Quidditch on the brain one way or another. He used to play for the Chudley Cannons once upon a time, back when they were only somewhat bad as opposed to downright awful, and he still held onto some of his physique. Today, he wore a purple Portree jumper and some faded jeans and trainers. As he fought as a faithful man, the team stuck with him. 

“Cat. Little Cat?” Ferguson frowned when her face fell and set his strategy charts aside. Realizing she was falling to pieces in front of him, Mr. Ferguson got to his feet and pulled her into the changing rooms. Peter, joking that she was at least fifteen minutes late to practice, followed. Peter locked the doors. “Sit.” 

Mr. Ferguson helped her onto a bench and handed her an orange Chudley Cannons handkerchief. He grumbled about her being left at the altar or the register office, or whatever, and commented on her ring. If things had been different, this might have been slightly funny. In the years that she’d been on the team, six years now, she had won Ferguson’s heart and become his favorite. 

“Peter, get her something, will you?” Ferguson dropped to his knees at Catriona’s feet and conjured a goblet of water. Sounding like a concerned father, he went from worried to desperate quick when the water works came on. “Tell me what to do.” 

“George died … George … George is dead.” Slowly, gasping for air as Peter handed her a paper bag, she took deep, slow breaths. Peter gave her instructions, dropping whatever he was doing, and rushed over with random parcels he’d grabbed from a locker. 

“In and out, in and out.” Peter sat beside her and placed a hand her back. Although they spent half their time during a match at each other’s throats, Peter always came through in a pinch. “Good girl.” 

Catriona took her time. She explained about the operation. It was supposed to be a peaceful action, but there were casualties on both Muggle sides. When one of the players demanded if practice had ended, Peter went to tell him to get back on the pitch. The interim Chaser who held Catriona’s spot needed all the training he could get, and Peter held the Captaincy at moment. She was the only woman on the team. When she explained the part about the Lord Loughinsholin bit, Ferguson looked lost, insisting there was no nobility in the wizarding world. 

“But there is in the Muggle world,” said Peter, offering Catriona a wrapped pumpkin pasty. He gave her another one. “This is from Stirling’s stash. Is that good enough to feed a little earl?” 

“Shut up?” Catriona raised her eyebrows and rolled her eyes when he opened a figs bar with his teeth. She took the food, too. 

“He acted like a proper man,” said Peter, sharing a tale about a pub. “Drank Guinness like a champ. I didn't know nobles drank beer, but he drank it like straight water.” 

“When was this?” asked Mr. Ferguson. 

“Not long ago because he sent George home to me.” Catriona crumbled the first wrapper and opened the second pasty, feeling a little better. She’d forgotten about that eventful evening. “I give you a twenty-seven year old man, and you send home a toddler. I tried to help him to bed and George kept … being George.” 

Ferguson snorted. Catriona, remembering he was in the changing rooms, blushed a little. 

“George did say you were a good lay.” Peter groaned when Mr. Ferguson reached over and smacked him. Peter, undeterred, waved at Catriona, meaning all of her. He was the son of an Air Force man, so he understood the military stuff. “He also said something about …” 

“Shut up. Right now.” Catriona didn't know what he was going to say, and frankly, she didn't care. Peter smiled and muttered how someone called Duke could actually end up as one of the nobles. 

“Shot him in the face,” said Peter, shaking his head sadly after a bout of silence. When none of them said anything, he went back to his other story. Catriona bowed her head. “No, what I was going to say before I got cut off by Catriona here was he was telling me his name… but he couldn’t make it…” 

“Oh, God,” said Catriona, wiping tears from her eyes again and laughing. 

“Yeah. What the hell? Pick a name, a maybe couple, and stick with them,” said Peter. He clapped Catriona on the shoulder. “I didn't know him.” 

“Nor did I,” she said. Peter wasn’t going back to practice because he had left his training headspace. Mr. Ferguson went back, reminding Catriona if she needed anything, anything at all, he was only an owl away. 

“You married the man,” said Peter. 

Peter went to go change out of his Quidditch robes and draped his traveling cloak over her shoulders. Peter went on to explain his parents had divorced when he was twelve, and although he didn't see his father much, his father was still his father. He helped Catriona to her feet and offered to take her out to lunch. Peter understood precious little about babies, a fact he made known the moment Catriona made the announcement to the Quidditch team. 

“I did,” she said, leading him out into the city and pointing out a tavern. “There?” 

“Food’s food,” he said, not picky. The team usually went to this place, yet none of the men knew the name. It was the Black Death. Peter, going by his see food philosophy, strapped on the feed bag and proved to be a good date for her. “Do you need me to do anything for you? I can stay with you … or … I don’t know. What do people do when someone dies?” 

“They eat. The food has magical properties,” she said, thanking a waiter who came by with two large platters and tankards of a dark stout, probably Guinness. Catriona planned to eat and eat because it’s what they did when her grandmother died. When Peter asked if this was true, about the food having powers, Catriona insisted food helped somewhere in the grieving process.  
“I feel empty.” 

“Do you need or want anything else?” 

“I want you to stop asking me that question.” She sipped her cherry-flavored fizzy drink. Peter nodded. She wanted to drink until she forgot this day. They sat at the table for a long time, and the waiter kept on bringing dishes to the table, curtesy of one Francis Ferguson. Ferguson was somewhat of a hero around here. The waiter topped off Peter’s glass every so often. “She likes you.” 

“Probably thinks I’m plying my wife with food,” he said, waving at the waiter. He studied Catriona’s face until she noticed he was staring. “You’re thinking.” 

“His parents don’t know.” Catriona drummed her fingers on the table and searched the personal effects bag. She found a folded piece of paper and handed it to him. If this was something she didn’t need to read, she needed to avoid the tears. “Can you read that to me?” 

“53, -7, _Kirley, litreacha caillte, sanctuary_.” Peter set this aside, completely confused. He apologized for butchering Gaelic. “Well, your husband speaks Gaeilgeoir. Didn't know that, did ya?” 

She shook her head and pushed away from the table. The number of things Catriona didn't know about George Duke would probably never cease to surprise her; it would also fill many books. “Speaks what?” 

“Fluent in Irish Gaelic,” said Peter, giving her small smile. He took the fresh loaf out of the bread basket, second guessed it, and asked to have the rest of the food packed away. He laughed when Catriona rested her hand on her chin and fished out a cherry, gazing at him expectantly. Oh? Me? No. No. Didn’t I just say I murdered the tongue? You’re in Scotland, that’s another Gaelic altogether. Good luck.” 

“I’m going to Ireland,” she said, holding out her hand for the note. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, bur she’d get there. “George wanted to get married back home.” 

“Was he Catholic?” 

“Yes.” 

“That’s why,” said Peter darkly. Catching her shocked look, he stopped and shrugged apologetically. Catriona used the table to heave herself up and had problems eradicating herself from the booth. “What did I say?” 

“Nothing, Peter.” Catriona gathered her things and thanked him for lunch, When she walked outside into the rain, he took her by the arm and spun her around, a large carryout bag draped over his arm. “Get away from me.” 

“Oh, so the man’s a saint because he got killed?” Peter ignored an old man who asked him to let her go. Catriona tugged her arm away after she slapped him with her other hand. Peter backed off, surprised. “You said yourself you didn't know him, Catriona. I … I didn't mean anything by it.” 

“He’s dead. How dare you!” Catriona walked home, telling him to go away. She’d refused his umbrella, so she’d arrived home soaking wet. “What exactly am I supposed to tell my child? ‘Oh, your father went on orders to Belfast to do what he could, but he was an Irish Catholic arresting other Irish Catholics, so he got what he deserved?’” 

“No. I … all right, now that you say that, that’s exactly how it sounds.” 

Peter frowned, playing this back through his mind, and offered her the leftovers. He shuffled his feet and apologized over and over again. After she took the Black Death bag, Catriona, hearing none of it, slammed the door in his face and locked it. When she finally heard his footsteps leaving, she emptied the personal effects bag, placing the note and the blue lighter in the junk drawer. 

 

On November eleventh, at five thirty-three in the afternoon, her life changed forever. For about two weeks leading up to this date, she seriously considered giving the child up for adoption. Of course, she really didn't know how to go about it, and when the matron handed the child over to her, she forgot about adoption altogether. She’d made it to Londonderry two days prior. She claimed to be on holiday, though she got her share of stares, and paid for her blatant independence when she went into labor and stood the side of the road first thing in the morning.

“Thank God,” she panted, moving like a hunchback as a car approached. The driver honked his horn, but she waved him down as another contraction took her. The man got out, asking what the hell she was doing in the middle of the road. “Help me.” 

“Oh, dear.” He placed a hand on her back and lifted her into his truck once she said she was all right. “Bad timing in this deluge.” 

“Yeah. I’ll keep that in mind next time.” Catriona swore there wouldn’t be a next time. The driver, who introduced himself as Nate, laughed, though he looked strangely familiar. “Catriona. Cat.” 

It felt like an hour, although Nate promised it took only twenty minutes to get to hospital. At one point, it rained so hard, he parked on the side of the road, and Catriona squeezed his knee as she cried out bloody murder. 

“You scream as loudly as you want, bonnie,” he said, stroking her hair. “Easy. I’ve got you, all right? You’re not alone.” 

“The father’s gone,” she said, tears streaming down her face. She’d been thinking about him since yesterday “I want George.” 

“He’s here. He’s with us,” said Nate, opening his glove compartment and handing some peppermint sweets. She thanked him and sighed when he started the car again. “You were going to walk to the hospital like this?” 

She laughed. “Yeah. I don’t know where that is.” 

“You were going the wrong way. You are in trouble.” Nate apologized for her husband’s death, though he didn't elaborate on it. 

She’d probably scared her good samaritan half to death when she’d flagged him down. The matron showed her a few things, though Catriona felt like a fish out of water. She didn’t know where she was and knew absolutely nobody. The matron said something, and Catriona nodded, not hearing a word she said, and placed the sleeping newborn at her side. 

A man dressed in casual clothing walked in and pulled up a chair. His blonde hair was slowly turning white and he smiled with his eyes. 

Catriona recognized this man as her roadside rescuer. “You.” 

“Me. You’re bonnie,” said the dirty man, introducing himself as George Duke, Earl of Loughinsholin. “I can see why Georgie chose you. Lovely hair and eyes.” 

“Mr. Duke. My lord,” said Catriona, hastily fixing her dressing gown and flushing with embarrassment. 

“Nate, please. Your lord? You don’t even live in these parts. And don’t get up.” Nate helped her back into the bed and placed a pillow behind her back. “I heard you were looking for me.” 

“I was.” 

“I was looking for you.” 

“You look like him. George.” Catriona liked the inviting, crinkly eye smile he gave her. Catriona imagined her husband a little ways down the road, maybe thirty years or so, sitting beside her. He would’ve mirrored this man. 

“I get that a lot,” said Nate, nodding at the sleeping bundle at her side. “Is that him? Or maybe it’s a girl?” 

“It’s your grandson, yes.” Catriona tried to pick him up, but Nate merely clicked his tongue disapprovingly, reminding her she'd just had major abdominal surgery. She’d tried for hours and hours, but the baby simply wouldn’t come. He picked up the baby and walked around with him. Catriona saw tears in the man’s eyes. 

“He looks like George.” Nate wiped his eyes hastily. “Except the hair. Look at that hair.” 

“I’ve cried all day, too,” she said, rolling onto her side, “and I’m sure the matron told you I said if she told me it was going to be all right one time or, God forbid, touched me, I’d knock her a good one.” 

Nate gave her a watery chuckle. “I heard something at the matron station. Been here since you got admitted.” 

Catriona didn’t know what to say to this, so she laid back on her pillows. For months, she’d felt quite alone and locked in a scary place. She didn't blame him, or she tried not to, but she’d needed George’s father a long time ago. Why had she been so afraid he’d turn her away as a whore carting around a bastard? 

“How did you find me?” Catriona fought to keep the accessory note out of her voice. “Where were you? I need … I needed you.” 

“I lost George.” 

“So did I.” She stopped, fighting to control her emotions when Nate paced down the maternity ward. “Nate. Please.” 

“I’m not leaving you, bonnie.” 

“It’s Catriona.” 

“Catriona Julianne Neilson, I’m aware, bonnie. An earl might’ve lost his privileges ere fifty years ago, but he holds onto his sources. I work as a chemist. Though it’s Duke now, isn't it?”  
“Yes.” 

“What’s he called?” Nate turned the fussy newborn to face her. 

“Kirley. Kirley George Joshua Alexander.” Except for the first name, she made that up on the spot as she studied Nate’s face again. 

“Well, well, Mr. Kirley George Joshua Alexander Duke, seventh earl of Loughinsholin. Yes.” Nate winked at Catriona, registering the shock on her face. He kissed the baby and he rocked him and calmed him down. After Catriona fed Kirley, he placed the baby in the bassinet and sang him what sounded like an old Irish lullaby. “I like the name. Nice. Strong. Irish. I’m a grandfather.” 

“Yeah,” said Catriona, a little dazed. “Yeah.” 

Nate took out his wallet and showed her a copy of her own wedding photograph. Although this was merely three months ago, it seemed like ages. George had handed a camera to a police officer and draped his arm round Catriona’s waist. She’d done her hair up that day for the occasion, and George looked really happy. Nate placed another photograph over this one: they were kissing, and the photograph actually caught Catriona’s hair flying away. 

“George sent these with a letter the day he left for Belfast. That boy was never this deliriously happy. Not even fake happy, Catriona. It arrived three days after he died.” Nate tucked the photographs away again. “I’ve been waiting for you. Praying you’d show up.” 

“You have?” 

“And as this isn’t 1773, I’m not to fussed about you being a Scottish girl. Nor my grandson being Scottish-Irish.” Nate went on to explain the landlady at the hotel had blabbed to him that a very pregnant woman called Mrs. Duke had checked into her establishment. She’d said Catriona slept a lot and appeared to be ready to give birth at any moment. “Her words not mine. I watched you in the courtyard yesterday when the pains started.” 

“You translated the note,” she guessed, turning George’s Belfast message over when she found it on the beside cabinet. Yesterday, she’d set it in the patio table as she stepped away for some fresh air. “53, -7, _latitude and longitude, Ireland, Kirley, letters lost, sanctuary. P.S. It won’t be long. You’re stronger than you think. —N._. I thought I’d lost this for a moment. I balled my eyes out. It was there, and then it wasn’t, and it was there again.” 

“I saw. I’m sorry.” Nate shrugged his shoulders. “Here’s no hidden message there, bonnie, it’s simply a note in George’s hand. Kirley’s in ruins. He enjoyed it there for the historical aspect. A history buff. He probably meant to go up there after he got off duty or something. Who knows?” 

“It’s nothing?” 

“It’s about as significant as a grocery list. George liked lists. He also banged on everything. He used my wife’s wooden spoons as drumsticks. His mother broke one on his buttocks once. Watch out.” 

Nate grinned from ear from ear. She smiled when he picked up Kirley and plopped down in the chair again. She asked if he was angry about dropping the name and not continuing the Duke tradition. Nate said no. She’d almost landed this kid with her maiden name, Neilson, and it wasn’t until Nate had repeated Kirley’s name that she’d made that call. When the birth certificate and official documents came, she signed in a flourish and requested that Nate sign his son’s name. Nate signed the whole damn name and made the matron laugh her head off. 

“Don’t see what's funny. Do you, grandson?” 

Kirley said nothing. For better or worse, he was a Duke.

**Author's Note:**

> There is no Earl of Loughinsholin. However, there is an actual fluent Irish Gaelic. And, yes, Operation Demetrius took place on August 9-10 1971 in Belfast, an operation by the British Army. 
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway I hope you enjoyed reading this. Let me know what you think. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
